


The Skies I'm Under

by sebviathan



Series: I will share your road [3]
Category: Psych, Supernatural
Genre: (on shawn's part), Afterlife, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, Multi, despite still being canon compliant with SPN
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-18
Updated: 2017-04-18
Packaged: 2018-10-20 16:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10666032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: They go to Heaven. Yes, both of them.





	The Skies I'm Under

**Author's Note:**

> Nearly two years later and I finally decided not to leave this series the way it was. Truth be told, I've had this idea ever since I posted Loose Ends, but I figured it would just be too contrived, and that it would be hard to not make this premise very predictable. But you know what? Fuck that! I don't care anymore! So few people care about this to begin with, why not just be self-indulgent? So here you all fucking go, HERE is this sappy, cheesy fic premise that I would have considered beneath myself when I started writing 6 years ago. I'm 20 years old and finally writing for myself.
> 
> The title is, of course, a lyric from the end of _Hopeless Wanderer_.

When Shawn dies, he doesn't quite realize it. He feels no pain, no loss of control, no struggle to live—he simply feels the lukewarm water of his motel's shower, and then feels nothing.

It's not uncommon for his brain to function on autopilot, so he merely assumes that he's unconsciously turned off the water.

What has killed him, he only understands later, is a poison. A _living_ poison that, after dripping into his open pores, has changed everything about his body except for his outermost appearance—no blood, no bones, no organs. No _brain_. Nothing for a human soul to attach to, and thus his soul is pushed out of his body as casually and unceremoniously as he might be scooted out of his subway seat.

So Shawn steps out of the shower, and dries off his hair, and steps out of the bathroom into what is certainly _not_ his hotel room.

He blinks, but nothing changes back. Rather than the faded wallpaper and mismatched paintings of cows that were on his walls prior to taking a shower, he sees wooden panels, and... various movie posters from the 80s.

The only reason that Shawn doesn't realize immediately is because it makes no sense that he should be here, that he somehow transported here while taking a shower—

Or especially that the towel around his waist would disappear and be replaced by real clothes, or that—he bends down to look in the mirror above his old desk—his hair would suddenly be styled exactly the way he likes it?

"Oh, I get it, this is a dream," he decides out loud. "Wait, did I fall asleep in the shower? And how am I so self-aware? My dreams _never_ get meta like this..."

It occurs to Shawn, then, that a number of monsters could have put him under some kind of hypnosis, or even an alternate reality, so he should be trying to wake up. Or at least wary. But... wouldn't he have sensed them coming?

And why would they put him _here_? Nothing is even happening. It's quiet, it's a sunny day outside, and he's... nostalgic.

Slowly, Shawn walks further into his old bedroom, and once at the center, he looks around. Every inch of this place... is exactly as he remembers it. The Star Wars blanket on his bed, and the way he never fully tucked the corners in. Val Kilmer's face plastered all over the closest wall, and the slightest indents of hearts he used to make with his fingernail on them. The shelf of 80s records in the corner, and a penis crudely drawn into the dust.

A creak breaks the silence, and Shawn immediately twists toward the source of the noise—his bedroom door, opening slowly but surely. He panics and reaches for his old baseball bat, then stands at the ready—

Except when the door stops opening, nothing comes in. Or it looks that way, until Shawn tilts his gaze downward and spots a familiar face.

"Chairman Meow?"

His old cat happily trots forward and wraps himself around Shawn's ankles, and Shawn, nearly ready to cry in happiness, sets the bat aside carefully before bending down.

Chairman Meow is content to be scooped up in Shawn's arms and cradled like a baby, just like he always was, and he closes his eyes and purrs as Shawn scratches his upper belly.

"God, I missed you, buddy..."

He hasn't been able to own a pet since he left home at 18, what with the constant traveling, and it obviously wasn't a deal-breaker at the time, but... now, he has to wonder how he was ever able to make that decision. Chairman Meow in particular was his favorite pet, as loud as he often was at night, and as much as he'd bite his face while he was sleeping, and as much as Henry hated him. _Especially_ because Henry hated him.

Shawn remembers that he went missing after less than a year, and that the weeks he spent putting up Lost Cat flyers were probably the hardest he's ever worked in his life.

For several minutes, it seems, as Shawn sits on his childhood bed and makes kissy-noises at his childhood cat, he entirely forgets the circumstances of his being here. But the warmth that's enveloped him reminds him... of something else that has made him feel this warm and this safe. _Cain._

And that reminds him that wherever he is—a place that feels like a memory come to life—it likely isn't the same plane of existence that Cain is on. And despite the temptation to leave that bridge to be crossed later, the rational side of him wins and he gently moves Chairman Meow off of his lap.

He gives an annoyed 'mrrrp' but otherwise doesn't seem too bothered. Shawn figures that means this place isn't necessarily a trap—if it was, wouldn't it start to fall apart, or work against him once he doubted its benevolence? Isn't that how it always works?

He stands up again and resumes inspecting the room, but more carefully this time, hoping to find something where it shouldn't be, some sign of where exactly he is... But nothing of the sort turns up. It's all truly, _exactly_ the same, right out of his own memory.

Finally, Shawn looks at the open door. It would only make sense to leave and explore the rest of the house—or to see if it even _is_ the rest of the house—but... he feels far more drawn to the box TV sitting across from his bed. He makes no effort to resist this feeling, but simply grabs the remote, and sits back down.

The TV turns on to a violent scene—which Shawn identifies moments later as being from Jaws. He skips the channel.

_"There's something in the water...,"_ says a teenage girl in what looks like a low-budget horror movie that Shawn's never seen. He skips again.

He now recognizes a very young Peter Weller and Ernie Hudson on the screen and, after watching about six minutes of a very contrived plot, finally recalls the title of that shit 1989 movie— _Leviathan_.

God, it's so much worse 23 years later. He skips again.

" _What are you doing?"_ says a very young Gabriel Jarret, to a very young Val Kilmer, at which Shawn lets out a soft scream of excitement, grins, and leans forward.

" _Self-realization,"_ Val Kilmer says. _"I was thinking of the immortal words of Socrates, who said, 'I drank what?'"_

Shawn continues watching—because how could he pass up a classic like Real Genius?—while the realization ever-so-vaguely sinks in. In the back of his mind, he thinks he might have known it since Chairman Meow walked in.

But who cares? Not him. Not yet. He did enough caring earlier, and he'll get back to it later.

He nearly even gets to finish Real Genius, before his door crashes open. Unstartled this time, Shawn merely looks over to see a 13 year-old—

"Gus?"

"You're _dead_ , Shawn!"

Before Shawn can react, Gus aims an oldschool Nerf Supersoaker at him and sprays a liberal dose of water right in his face.

" _Pbbbt_ _—_ " Shawn spits, and wipes his face, and without even thinking responds, "Warn a guy, wouldn't you?"

"You said we were gonna play!" Gus says, exasperated. "What, did you just completely get lost in a movie again?"

"Uh, not just _any_ movie, Gus. It's got Val Kilmer. Come on." Once again, a bit beyond his control.

"Well, do you still wanna play?"

Shawn _remembers_ this, now—it was the week in the Summer of 1990 that his dad was away, with only his mom and occasionally a babysitter to monitor him. He spent most of it with Gus, running up and down the neighborhood and watching movies and eating junk. It... it had to be one of the happiest, most carefree weeks of his life.

So he's dead. He only has a vague idea how or why, but being a hunter it isn't all that unbelievable. He is _dead_. And if he took more time to think about it, that would be really sad.

But this is _Heaven_.

"Of course! Just lemme get my water gun."

 

***

 

Shawn's slice of eternal paradise seems to span a good chunk of Santa Barbara.

He re-experiences not only his week with Gus from age 13, but a number of Especially Good Days from childhood, all somehow seamlessly flowing together. He has his first kiss again, and... several other kisses. He has his first sex with a girl again. His has his first sex with a boy again.

He spends a lot of time in his old spot behind the high school with Gus as a teenager, and with his mom as a younger kid, and simply riding around on his motorcycle as a young adult. He spends the _most_ time on his motorcycle, after a bit, figuring he ought to explore.

A lot of it perfectly reflects the real Santa Barbara from 1982-1995. But the further he gets from the places he remembers the most, the less... _rendered_ things start to seem. That's when it becomes clear to him that this all really is just a simulation of memories, that he's the only real soul here—that this may be the setting of his most peaceful memories, but something or someone is keeping him from thinking too deeply into it.

And that makes sense, he _supposes_. It wouldn't be Heaven if he was able to get hung up on negative feelings, would it? That's what mortal life is for.

But it also can't really be Heaven without the _real_ Gus, or his _real_ mother, or...

Someone his Heaven can't even show him, for reasons he understands but certainly does not like. Someone his Heaven has distracted him from almost entirely.

It would probably have _succeeded_ entirely, if he wasn't the way he is. His psychic levels of empathy may have been irrelevant since he got here, which has admittedly been somewhat of a relief, but his abilities aren't _gone_. He still has mental autonomy, and he's going to miss Cain whether that fits Heaven's standards or not.

And _god_ , does he miss him. He realizes that Cain may not even have any idea what's happened to him, and that makes him so _sad_.

Gus, too—what will he _do_? Except— _god_ , at least Gus will be able to die within a timely manner and join him! Cain is not only damn near immortal, but if by some way he _does_ ever die? Shawn feels sure that time works differently up here than in the mortal plane of existence, but he'd surely still be waiting forever.

And that's if Cain even makes it to Heaven. (He _must_ , Shawn feels even surer that he _will_ , he _deserves_ it, but...)

Shawn has spent so long in bliss, now, that this sadness and grief feels worse than anything he ever felt while alive. He feels _angry_ , too, betrayed even—not that a place called Heaven would allow him to feel this, but that a place that can't make him truly content would dare call itself Heaven.

He finds, however, the thing about Heaven is that when he doesn't think about it, his longing for Gus and Cain is easy to forget. This place is driven by pure nostalgia, and that properly distracts him as long as he doesn't get too close to the edge.

Of course, he still does. He can't quite say how often due to time no longer being a constraining thing, but by now he has gotten Very Very Sad three times. And he has driven through all the roads he knows at least twenty times. He's sure he's seen the edges of what's available to him enough times to memorize the perimeter.

And if that's true, then an exit seems to have opened up in between the last time he drove past this side of El Camino Real and now.

Without a second thought, he takes it.

 

*

 

It quickly turns from highway to dirt road, and Shawn is certain he's not traversing a parallel version of California. He feels very clearly that this road has a single destination—a new place that he is privy to. A new version of Heaven? Did he unlock a bonus map somehow?

...Or someone else's Heaven, someone he knew? It would make sense. But whose? He doubts it would be Gus, but... one of his parents, perhaps. If it is, he hopes it's not Henry.

It may be selfish of him, but part of him hopes that it's Juliet, so he can properly apologize. At the very least because it's the most likely death to have happened, and so he could have some company that he knew was not a fabrication of his memory. He imagines—or hopes—that it'll feel different.

Shawn drives and drives and drives, farther than even a full tank of gas would realistically allow. Or perhaps not. He might be experiencing this ride to last especially long for some spiritual reason, or even no reason at all—or it might simply be true to his mortal self. Time always did feel weird on long drives.

It appears to be late evening when he arrives upon a small meadow, squared by trees and crossed down the middle by a dirt path. At the end of the path is a cottage that looks something out of Little House on the Prairie—certainly not built in this century, but still very sturdy. It's not a place Shawn recognizes from any point in his life, and yet...

Yet he already feels welcome as he parks his motorcycle and approaches.

_Should I knock?_ it occurs to him, before he makes any move to touch the door. _I mean, I'm clearly invited, but it might still just be the polite thing to do_ _—_ _but this IS Heaven, so will they really care?_

He eventually knocks—thrice, gently, unlike he's ever knocked on a door in his life.

_Huh. Why'd I do it like that?_

He waits fourteen seconds before the door opens, and he's greeted by someone he never met in life—whom it was never _possible_ for him to meet, but whom he recognizes all the same.

"...I'm sorry, but who are you?" she asks, her initial smile fading. She doesn't seem to be necessarily alarmed by his appearance, though.

Shawn struggles to hide his utter joy, and thus winds up telling her with a bit too strong of a smile,

"You don't know me, Colette, but I know your husband. My name is Shawn Spencer."

She looks to be feeling a number of emotions from that, most prominently confusion. "He's not—"

"Cain isn't here yet, I know. To tell the truth I'm not quite sure why _I'm_ here, but I can't tell you how glad I am to see you. I guess... we have some things to talk about?"

Colette shows a familiar hint of curiosity as she opens the door a bit further, and steps to the side.

"Make yourself at home, Shawn."

 

***

 

When Cain dies, the whole world knows it. Of course not all the people _in_ the world, but the world _itself_ _—_ the weather, the nature. The air changes, the same way it did when Eve was killed. Most notably, there is a deafening clap of thunder that Cain himself somehow hears, even while his soul has become separate from his body at long last.

He's surprised, in a way, that he even has a soul. Though perhaps _this_ isn't one in the traditional sense.

It's been a good run. Over six-thousand years alive and fully corporeal for all of it, and now _dust_ _—_ and it's a relief, truly, no matter where he's going. It's almost unbelievable, considering the amount of times he's attempted it despite the knowledge that it would never work. _Never_ was wrong, thank god.

When Cain's state of disassociation ends and light begins to filter back in, he fully expects it to be the fires of Hell. Or the harsh white lighting of Hell's Waiting Room. Or Lucifer's light, ready to taunt him or double-kill him or whatever else. He's been expecting it for millennia. It's fine.

But then his particles seem to rush back into existence all at once, like someone simply couldn't wait through the fade, and he is... standing in a small meadow.

He knows exactly where he is, and whom this place belongs to.

He can't believe it. In fact he _refuses_ to believe that he could ever be allowed here after what he's done, especially in the last few months, and he is _sure_ that this must be a trick, that this is a cruel illusion to begin his time as a prisoner of Hell—

If it was, though, would such a deep warmth proceed to wash over him like this?

Would the scent of lilies be so strong, and feel so real?

Would Hell actually be so elaborate so as to construct this faint breeze?

Cain follows his compulsion to turn around, and he faces the cottage that he built for himself and Colette once upon a time. They only lived in it briefly before there was no other choice but to run from Abaddon, but the time they did... was some of the purest, most fulfilling of his life.

It's the Heaven he never had the gall to imagine, and he can only hope that it's Colette's, too.

So he starts walking.

It's slow work, but that could simply be the distortion of time. It doesn't matter. The walk doesn't feel like a struggle, but just... peaceful.

After all this time, he still couldn't possibly have the gall to complain.

For most of the walk, Cain doesn't take his eyes off of the cottage. However, a few strides away from the door, his gaze falls upon what is undeniably a motorcycle, parked to the side. And he stops. And his lips tremble into a smile that, even here, even now, he feels the urge to cover up.

And if there weren't already tears in his eyes, there are now.

He sprints the rest of the way to the door.

**Author's Note:**

> _I wrestled long with my youth_  
>  We tried so hard to live in the truth  
> But do not tell me all is fine  
> When I lose my head, I lose my spine 
> 
> _So leave that click in my head_  
>  And I won't remember the words that you said  
> You brought me out from the cold  
> Now, how I long, how I long to grow old 


End file.
